


That Familiar Itch

by J_Baillier



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Airports, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Don't copy to another site, M/M, Romance, Sexual Tension, Sherlock's suits, Sneezing, Tall dark strangers, The reawakening of the Watson libido post-Afghanistan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-24 00:27:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21090323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Baillier/pseuds/J_Baillier
Summary: Who knew what adventures causing someone spill their coffee could lead to? Not John Watson, that's for sure.





	That Familiar Itch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sartorius](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sartorius/gifts).

> [[an index and guide to all my Sherlock stories](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25011148)]
> 
> Based on a cracky idea by the delightful (tiny)sartorius, this was typed up on my phone during an early morning flight to Frankfurt.

Everyone knows the feeling — that overwhelming calm before a storm when your mouth drops open in anticipation violently expelling the irritating bits in the mucous contents of your airways out in a sneeze. Sometimes your body will abort that very primal impulse at the last moment, leaving you hanging in an uneasily dormant kind of peace.

This is precisely what is happening to John Watson. In the throes of that bodily foreplay before a sexually unsatisfying nasal climax, he curses the fact that his paper napkin is soaked with coffee where it sits on his tray; he won't be able to wipe his nose if the worst best thing happens. It’s not allergies, it’s likely not a head cold; just a sporadic bit of incapability to keep the reins tight on one’s corporeal form.

There’s nothing for it: he sneezes, and that sneeze is so loud that it startles his fellow passenger — who’s just taken a seat beside John's — so hard that they spill coffee all over their lap, leaping to their feet in a most agile and spluttery manner, hands flapping as they try to repel drops of what could well be a triple espresso.

"I am so sorry," John says. "Here," he offers and snatches a dry napkin from the man’s tray and thrusts it at him.

"What am I supposed to do with that, then? Dab away like some moron hell bent on making sure every drop gets pushed into the fibres?"

The man's baritone is deep; it's slowly dripping honey and cigars in mahogany rooms and decadent breakfasts in boutique hotels and lips vibrating around a cock. It sends a shiver down John’s spine which could naturally also just be an aftereffect of expelling an aneurysm-popping perfect storm of snot. At least none of that had landed on the handsome stranger.

Once John manages to gather his faculties, he makes a quick survey of the man while still holding out the napkin like an idiot making a sacrificial offering to the airport gods. The man is perhaps slightly younger than him, clearly much taller and slimmer, and his suit is doing a good job repelling droplets of espresso from soaking in. _Probably wool_, John reasons. The glorious sartorial ensemble is coal black, tailored so perfectly it sits like a licked stamp on an envelope, and there’s a white dress shirt underneath without a tie. Its collar embraces a pale, long neck like a lover planning to use a bit of teeth in their next caress.

While the man circumnavigates the small cafe table in front of him, John gets a visual tour of his curls; dark chocolate brunette, thick as a mop, with enough product that he could probably walk through a tornado without a single strand shifting out of place. _Perfection_, John thinks, and has an almost irresistible impulse to fuck that perfection up in a way that ends in a mutual orgasm. This isn't him — of course he sometimes _looks_ at both men and women, but this unadulterated yearning for something he had no idea ten minutes ago he had ever even wanted has him bent over a barrel.

He swallows. "Business?" His shellshocked brain parses together.

"None of yours, that’s for certain," the man replies.

What John had meant but failed to ask was whether the man is on a business trip. Somehow, the man had deduced the rest and replied accordingly.

"Watch my things," he commands and promptly marches off in the direction of the nearest post-security Terminal 2 gents’ loo.

"Sure," a baffled John replies needlessly since the man is already out of earshot.

His victim returns ten minutes later, his suit looking pristine.

"No lasting damage?" John asks.

"Managed to find an unattended cleaning trolley which had what I needed. Not exactly high street dry cleaning; had to improvise but the results are passable."

John nudges the man’s hand luggage closer to where he has retaken his seat. It’s a battered, old leather suitcase that doesn’t seem to fit the rest of that business traveller image. _Odd_, John thinks and likes it. _Off kilter_. Just like something seems to be about the man himself.

"Family heirloom?" John asks, nodding at the leather bag. He finds it endearing that this angular, brusque stranger would reveal their soft side by having chosen luggage with obvious sentimental value. _Or maybe he just likes things that last._

"Something like that." The dismissive tone, and the fact that the man is now typing away at his phone at the speed of light, are John's cue to shut up, finish his expensive, bland Heathrow breakfast and hope that his flight to Edinburgh will leave on time.

—————————  


Fifty minutes later, John tries to walk through the automated boarding pass -reading gate, but rams into the plexiglass that was supposed to slide aside when it fails to open.

"Dr Watson? Your seat has been reassigned to business class due to the fullness of the flight," a steward informs him and prints out a new boarding pass.

Harry had booked him the ticket since he was running low on funds and apparently picked "Dr" instead of just "Mr". John had never advertised his profession like that even though he’d heard from colleagues that disclosing it in the booking process might well yield some perks.

"Oh," he says, having a vision of himself in business class, ashamed of his worn corduroy trousers and the fact that he has no clue how everything there works as opposed to coach. He can only hope to be seated next to someone who won’t look at him down their nose.

—————————

His wish is not granted. In fact, he decides it must be karmic payback when he discovers his seatmate is none other than mister tall, lanky, dark and cranky from the cafe.

"Oh," the man says and the sweeping glance he gives John is difficult to interpret. At least it isn't blatantly hostile. "They bumped you up since you’re an army doctor. First time in business class."

It’s not a question, just the stating of a fact.

"I’m going to visit my sister," John offers and realises only after the fact how apropos it sounds. He'd said it to obfuscate, to divert the topic, to distract his companion until he can work out how the hell this man could know all that about him.

"Obvious."

John drops into his seat and stares. "Not really. What are you doing in Scotland, then? Stage magic?"

"A case."

"Case...?" Johns eyes drift to the leather bag. It's not exactly a _case_, is it, but… "You mean you’re returning that––" 

"No, not a _case_ as in a bag, but a _case_ as in an _investigation_. I’m a consulting detective." There is now pride in the man’s voice and he meticulously folds away his copy of that day's Times to focus on John, who has a nagging suspicion that the man has just bragged about something. 

"You investigate consulting fraud?" He tries.

There’s a theatrical eye roll. "The police consult me when they’re out of their depth."

"The police don’t consult amateurs."

The man looks aghast at the implication that he is one.

"What are you consulting on, then? In Edinburgh?" John asks, wanting to salvage the situation.

The man’s eyes narrow as he studies John’s features. Then, he conspiratorially digs out his phone, and John finds himself looking at photos of decapitated bodies.

"Someone is killing archaeologists," his companion explains.

"Why?"

"That’s what I need to find out."

They look at some more gruesome pictures and John, eager to prove he’s less of an idiot than he’d sounded like earlier, makes some analytical comments on the signs of physical trauma beyond the obvious.

By the time they land in Edinburgh, time has flown by through lively discussion of traumatology, serial killers and associated forensics, which had blanched at least one stewardess. John doesn’t care — he’s having fun. Which is a pity because before long, they are walking through the terminal's arrivals level to the baggage reclaim.

As they take up standing positions close to the conveyor belt, the man from the plane looks thoughtful. "Could use some expert assistance; crime techs don’t usually like me since I often analyse their samples quicker and more accurately than they do. If you get bored watching your sister try to stay off the bottle, come find me," he tells John. "That is, if you have time; I wouldn't want to intrude on your holidays."

It would be an intrusion John would gladly welcome. "Find you? But how? I don’t even know your—"

"The name’s Sherlock Holmes, and I’ll be staying at the Musgrave Hotel."

Briefly, John feels a flush of excitement not unlike when he’d agreed to hook up in someone’s room at medical conferences. He knows he will eventually get bored and frustrated with Harry, especially since this whole trip is a condescending thing designed to cheer him up even though knowing it’s charity from Harry will only make him feel like an even bigger failure after his army career had ended so violently and suddenly. This, right now, analysing crime scene photos and being propositioned by a tall dark stranger, makes him feel the very opposite of useless and pathetic. He’s not had much excitement in his life after getting back from Afghanistan, and he had tried to convince himself that a bit of peace and quiet would be a good thing, but it isn’t. It’s killing him, slowly and steadily, which is why he realises he’d follow this stranger to whatever killing fields await him in Edinburgh. Truth be told, John might even be game to follow him into an empty stall in the gents right now to see what lies beneath that very much _not_ coffee-stained posh suit.

"I’m John," he introduces himself and extends his hand for a shake. "And even if it sounds strange, I’m starting to think nearly ruining your suit was the best thing that has happened to me recently."

**— The End —**


End file.
